


The Last Few Moments of Amélie Lacroix

by dirtyclaws



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Assassins, Brainwashing, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Murder, Science, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 23:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17110061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtyclaws/pseuds/dirtyclaws
Summary: The last events before the Widowmaker Initiative succeeded.





	The Last Few Moments of Amélie Lacroix

**Author's Note:**

> man widowmaker sure is sad huh. also for this fic im assuming that widowmakers alias is danielle guillard, as the game has heavily hinted. and like every single one of my fics i wrote this at 1 am after being up for 18 hours

It is so easy at first. It is so easy to be angry and rage, to let fury mask all the fear and terror, and to swear and snarl and thrash. But for all of it, it does not change. It does not stop Moira putting the needle into her arm and pressing down, pouring liquid fire in her veins. It does not let the restraints come loose. It does not rescue her.

 

It is so easy, when Moira walks in, to be angry.

 

“How are you feeling, Guillard? Or do you prefer your code name, Widowmaker?” Moira's voice is the only one she hears now, and it is such a horrible, cold sound. Amelie slams her fists against the table as best she can, tugging against the restraints. It won't do anything, but she wants Moira to know (almost as much as she wants herself to know) that she isn't broken yet. 

 

She says the words forcefully, wishing they could hit Moira and cause the bitch physical pain. “My name is not Guillard. It is Lacroix.”

 

Moira sighs and sits in the chair by Amelie, scratching notes and preparing various needles and vials next to her IV. Besides Amelie's table, it is the only furniture in the stark white room. “I could make this painless, you know. It only hurts because you force it to. This is not an inherently painful process.” She doesn't bother addressing the name.

 

“Fuck you.” Amelie continues swearing in French, mustering every insult she can think of. She already knows she is going to die here. There's no point in holding back.

 

Moira sighs again. “As you wish.” Amelie watches her empty the vial with the syringe. Amelie watches her empty it into the IV and then throw them both away. Amelie watches her leave the room and then shifts down to the purple liquid slowly making it's way through the tube. And when it hits her veins Amelie starts screaming.

 

×××

 

The insults cannot last forever. After… she doesn't know how long. Amelie has to bite her tongue so she doesn't sob. There is no clock, the lights are never off. Her meals are fed through her IV. She is stuck here, and she will be, until she dies. 

 

Moira walks in, as she always has. Every day? Every week? Every hour? She doesn't know. And when Moira asks how she is, she doesn't bother responding. She just stared at the wall. Anywhere that the doctor is not.

 

Moira walks to the monitors and begins recording her notes. “We both know you're in the downhill slope, Guillard. It's only a matter of time before the treatments are able to reach your brain. Make this easier on both of us and just let it?” Amelie detects the tiniest bit of frustration in her tone, and it gives her a brief glow. No matter what happens, she irritated Moira and it showed. It is a small victory, and one that will never matter, but it is a victory.

 

But she is right. Amelie is not going to hold on much longer. She is going to bow to it, or she will die.

 

Moira takes her silence as an answer. Empties the vial. Empties the syringe. Throws them away. Leaves. But this time, Amelie does not scream.

 

×××

 

“This is your last dose.” Moira flicks the syringe with her long fingernails, the bubbles vanishing. “Whether you like it or not, you will be Danielle Guillard, a cover for the assassin known as Widowmaker. And we can finally put this  _ pointless  _ business to rest.”

 

Something inside of Amelie breaks. This was not fair or right. This was terrible and cruel. The woman across from her was a butcher, a sadistic, senseless woman. And if she was to fall, it would not be willingly.

 

“My name is not Danielle Guillard, or Widowmaker, or whatever you want it to be!” A horrible sob thrashes it's way up her throat, tearing out of her mouth. Her voice is coarse and rough from disuse. “I am Amelie! I am Amelie Lacroix! I AM AMELIE LACROIX!” Amelie screams herself hoarse, repeating it over and over until it has no meaning. She screams until the sobs force her to stop, shaking and gasping and  _ raw _ . 

 

“Are you finished?” Moira's cold, cruel voice leaves Amelie sobbing harder, curling in in herself as much as she can, because she cannot do anything. She cannot fight back, she cannot refuse, she cannot even die. So she waits, and sobs, as Moira clicks a few buttons and the world goes black and all she dreams of is fear. 

 

××× 

 

The last time Amelie wakes is the worst. It is with her hands steeped in blood, with her skin the color of pale, frosted violets, and sitting on top of Gerard, a knife in his chest.

 

“Oh, no,” whispers Amelie, clutching her shaking hands over her mouth. She can taste his blood, still warm on her hands. “No, no no no no no.” 

 

Amelie slides to the side and clutches Gerard close to her, sobs wracking her body. For several moments she is silent, her grief too heavy in her throat. But she cannot hold it back, and soon keening fills the air, Amelie softly weeping over her husband's body. Pain curls inside her ribcage, wrapping itself around her ribs and crushing them. 

 

Soft dawn was creeping in the windows before she moved. Blood caked the front of her body and had lodged itself under her fingernails. With a glance, Amelie knew she could never scrub it off. No amount of soap could take it away.

 

Amelie stepped out of the apartment. She could feel herself steadily slipping, turning over to the blank darkness that Moira had given her. She sat on the balcony, sipping a glass of red wine she'd found in the kitchen. And as the sun rise above the horizon, Amelie Lacroix died.


End file.
